Xiaoyu didn't know how long she had been unconscious. The sharp, insistent pressure behind her temples eased only slightly as she stirred, blinking into a world that was… wrong.
She tried to sit up immediately. The movement sent her stomach twisting violently, the bitter taste of bile creeping back into her mouth. She groaned, head pressing into the pillow, and fought the nausea.
When she opened her eyes fully, the first thing she noticed was the light. Gentle, diffused, soft enough not to hurt her hangover-addled vision, but bright enough to make her squint. And the ceiling—clean, white, sterile. Not her apartment, not the office, not anywhere familiar. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.
The memories of the previous night returned in staccato flashes: the bar, the glasses, the laughter, her voice rising, the sharp, unfair edges of her job biting into her chest, and—him. Liang Wei, standing rigid, impassive, and utterly unaffected… until she vomited.
Her stomach lurched again at the recollection. She pressed both hands to her mouth and let out a soft, embarrassed groan.
Oh no!
She had been carried here.
The bed was too wide, too clean. The sheets crisp and perfectly tucked. A faint, unfamiliar scent lingered in the air—something floral, faintly citrusy, comforting but foreign. Xiaoyu's mind raced, panic prickling at the edges.
Someone had changed her.
Her hands flew to her chest. The clothes she had worn—her blouse, her coat, her trousers—were gone. Instead, she wore a soft cotton shirt, oversized, sleeves falling past her wrists. Her hair had been combed back neatly, tied in a way that suggested careful hands, not her own lazy attempt to hide the mess from last night.
She froze.
Someone—other than Liang Wei—had handled her body, had cleaned her, had changed her.
Her cheeks burned. Anxiety and shame combined with a prickly, simmering anger. She hadn't wanted this. No, she had been humiliated enough in public already—how dare someone treat her like a child?
Her thoughts spun, jumping to the worst-case scenario.
Was it him? Had he done it himself?
The idea made her chest tighten, breath uneven. No, it had to have been a maid. There was no other explanation, she told herself desperately. That made it slightly less mortifying, but it didn't erase the way her stomach churned with embarrassment.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed carefully, feet touching the cool hardwood floor. She tried to stand, swaying slightly, catching herself on the edge of the bed. Her reflection in the darkened glass panel near the window startled her: hair tamed but still slightly mussed, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks flushed, lips trembling faintly. She looked small, fragile—and yet aware of every detail around her.
The apartment was quiet. The silence pressed in, heavy, almost expectant. Then she noticed movement—a shadow in the kitchen.
Liang Wei.
He was there, calm, precise, moving with measured steps, dressed not in his usual suit but in dark slacks and a simple white shirt, sleeves rolled up neatly. He wasn't watching her, not directly. He was preparing something at the counter—a small pot of soup steaming gently.
Her first instinct was to apologize again, to explain, to cry, to do something that might undo last night. But her chest tightened in frustration.
Her voice came out small and uneven.
"I… I'm sorry."
He glanced at her briefly, expression carefully neutral, then returned to the soup.
"You should be," he replied finally, voice calm, even.
The simplicity of the words, the detachment in his tone, made her chest ache. What was she expecting, still it stoked the simmering anger inside her.
"I should be?" she repeated, incredulous. "You—" She stopped herself. The bile of last night's humiliation rose in her throat. "You made everything so difficult for me at work! Every single day. You've been… you've been—"
She pressed her hands to her knees, fighting the nausea and her fury. "Why? Why are you doing this to me? After everything I did, after I—"
He didn't interrupt. He continued to stir the soup, carefully, deliberately. She noticed the way his sleeve caught the light, the precise angle of his wrist, the subtle tension in his shoulders.
She realized, abruptly, that he had changed. Not entirely, not completely—but the casual formality of his posture, the absence of a suit, the care in the soup he had prepared… it was different. Less intimidating. Less unapproachable.
But that realization did little to temper the surge of anger.
Her voice rose, brittle and trembling. "I didn't ask for this! For any of this! I didn't come here to be humiliated, to be treated like… like some… object, some… pawn!"
He finally turned to face her, expression unreadable. The soup bowl in his hands was simple, practical. He set it down carefully in front of her without a word.
"Drink," he said. Short. Flat.
The simplicity, the abruptness, made her want to throw up again. She wanted to yell, to cry, to hit him for making everything so difficult, so messy.
Instead, she picked up the spoon, trembling, and took a small sip. The warmth spread through her chest, easing the sharp edges of her hangover. The faint ginger, the faint aroma of goji berries, worked quietly to soothe her stomach.
She looked up.
He stood a few feet away, arms folded loosely, eyes trained elsewhere—not on her, not on the soup. The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
"I… I didn't mean to get this drunk," she said finally. Her voice was quiet, almost shameful now. "But… it's—" She broke off, frustrated. "It's because of you. You've made work… impossible. I… I don't know what you expect of me."
He didn't flinch. He didn't deny it. He didn't explain. He simply watched her with quiet, measured attention.
"I've seen… I know things," she continued, voice shaking with a mixture of shame and accusation. "I know you're… afraid… of—of the dark. I've seen you. Twice. And somehow… I became the target. The one you make life difficult for. And—" Her voice cracked. "I drank because I couldn't… handle it anymore. I couldn't handle this place anymore!"
She lowered her gaze, stomach twisting.
The soup sat untouched in front of her now, steaming quietly, as though it were the only calm thing in the world.
Finally, he spoke.
"You should finish it," he said. Calm. Flat. Neutral.
Xiaoyu's fingers curled around the edge of the bowl. She wanted more—anger, apology, confrontation—but the words faltered on her lips. The silence pressed against her, heavy with everything unspoken.
She took a small sip again, shivering slightly as the warmth spread through her chest.
"I…" she began again, hesitating. "I never pitied you. Not once."
He didn't respond. Not with words. Not with acknowledgment.
"I protected your secret," she continued, quieter now, almost a whisper. "I didn't tell anyone. And yet… you've made my life miserable because of it. Why?"
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes flickered to her briefly, and she caught the slightest shadow of something she had never seen before—something private, delicate, almost unreadable.
Then he returned to his usual distance, voice clipped:
"You should rest."
No explanation. No defense. No apology. Just… that.
Xiaoyu's shoulders slumped. She wanted to be furious, to strike, to demand an answer—but she was exhausted. Humiliated. Angry. And beneath it all… confused.
The warmth of the soup did little to quell the mix of shame and resentment coiling in her chest.
She looked down at it again, realizing finally that she had no choice but to drink it, to acknowledge the care he had taken—even if it had been given coldly, reluctantly, silently.
One spoonful. Then another.
The act was simple. Humble. Awkward. But it forced her to acknowledge one thing she hadn't wanted to admit: despite everything, someone had noticed her breaking last night. Someone had acted.
Even if that someone had made her life unbearable afterwards.
Even if it had been him.
The spoon hovered midair as she took a shaky breath.
And the room stayed silent.
But Xiaoyu knew one thing for certain. The day had only just begun—and the storm between her and the CEO was far from over.